Whoever enters the new year without reordering attention doesn’t move through time, but quietly disappears from themselves.
The new year creates the impression of motion even when nothing has truly shifted. It presents itself as a cultural alibi. We speak enthusiastically of fresh starts, opportunities, and renewal, yet we rarely address the moral stakes that such a beginning actually demands. That silence isn’t accidental. Taking a first step is inherently risky.
A beginning places us in a demanding relationship with time, promise, and attention. This relationship is anything but optional and is constantly unsettled by the course of the world. Now, I attempt to lay bare what is at stake, without offering comfort or ornamental hope. First of all, best wishes, y’all. The public sphere’s a roller coaster and has a profound impact on my life, which will likely sound familiar. Meanwhile, the personal realm is subject to significant change by choice.
Besides, in March, my philosophical novel Memos from the Edge will be released. The print edition is in English, while the e-book includes a built-in feature that lets readers select their preferred translation without violating copyright. One thing remains unchanged for me in 2026: a persistent hunger for the intellectual, artistic, and beautiful life. In that search, I continue to seek out the most obscure philosophers of all time, in other words, hidden treasures.
In a society constantly fed by options and permanent reversibility, a promise becomes suspicious. A promise closes doors and narrows possibilities. For that very reason, a promise is indispensable. In 2026, a promise isn’t a statement about what will come, but a decision about what’s no longer possible. Read that again. This is precisely what gives a promise its weight.
To promise is to acknowledge that not everything remains at one’s disposal. Piero Martinetti argued that a promise isn’t a contract with the future, but a self-limitation of infinity in the present. A promise doesn’t express optimism, but a voluntary reduction of freedom in service of meaning. The new year confronts us with this paradox. Only those who make less possible can bring something into being.
A promise requires more than enthusiasm; it demands seriousness. Enthusiasm may evaporate, but seriousness endures when motivation fades. That is why the new year isn’t a moment to want more, but to dare to promise with greater precision. Not what sounds impressive, but what remains when silence sets in.
We tend to speak of time as if it simply happens to us. As though it were a neutral backdrop against which life unfolds. But time is no mere scenery. Time is a force that addresses us. Gaston Berger described time as an ethical pressure. Time compels us to choose through finitude. Each new year makes this palpable. Suddenly, what wasn’t done, chosen, and spoken becomes visible. Time reveals not only what was, but also what might have been.
For that reason, the new year isn’t an emptiness to be filled, but a tension that must be endured. Those who see time only as something to manage miss its moral dimension. Time doesn’t ask for efficiency, but for presence. It demands that we not only act within it, but take responsibility for how we inhabit it.
Jeanne Hersch saw attention as the core of freedom because it precedes every choice. Without attention, we don’t choose; we merely react. Attention isn’t a mental technique or a piece of ‘wellbeing jargon’. Attention is the site where our moral life unfolds. What we attend to gains weight; what we ignore loses its claim to existence.
In the new year, attention therefore matters more than intention. Intentions are plentiful and inexpensive. Attention is scarce and costly. Attention asks us to tolerate what appears, without rushing to fix it. This is often uncomfortable. Attention confronts us with the complexity we would rather bypass. Without that confrontation, however, the new year becomes nothing more than repetition with altered data.
Ernst Bloch spoke of the beginning as the moment when possibility looks at us and asks whether we are willing to bear it. A threshold is neither a beginning nor an end, but a zone in which remaining is impossible. In other words, stagnation. The new year functions in precisely this way. It forces us to take a position, because we can no longer pretend that nothing has changed.
Those who reduce the new year to mere symbolism evade that question. Symbols aren’t decorations. They are condensations of responsibility. The new year calls for a reassessment of what we deem necessary, what can wait, and what can no longer.
Ritual binds what cannot be spoken to the body. Ritual is often associated with repetition and tradition. Yet its deeper function is stability amid uncertainty. Ernesto de Martino described ritual as a response to existential disintegration. It prevents meaning from dissolving when words fail. Without ritual, promises may remain suspended in thought.
In the new year, ritual isn’t a return to the past, but a way of staying oriented toward the future. It’s an action that can be repeated when conviction falters. Ritual isn’t magical thinking, but a mnemonic that doesn’t depend on mood. It makes fidelity possible when motivation runs dry.
Every life with direction is built on what it refuses. Sacrifice is often interpreted as loss. In truth, it’s a form of sharpness. The Austrian thinker Ferdinand Ebner saw sacrifice as the condition for encounter. Those who want to keep everything encounter nothing fully. Sacrifice isn’t heroism, but a refusal to let meaning drown in abundance.
The new year, therefore, doesn’t ask for greater effort, but for selective courage. That is, the courage not to want to be everything at once. To allow possibilities to die so that the real may have room to live. Sacrifice isn’t punishment, but an ordering of desire.
Max Picard described silence as a moral atmosphere in which truth can breathe. Silence is often mistaken for emptiness rather than concentration. In silence, words regain their weight. Without silence, meaning loses density and language becomes ornament. A new year without silence is merely a continuation of the same noise. Silence confronts us with the question of whether our promises are genuinely our own, or merely echoes of social expectation. Silence isn’t an escape from the world, but a correction of superficiality.
In the new year, hope isn’t a projection of improvement, but a discipline of fidelity. Hope is frequently confused with optimism. Lev Shestov understood hope as a refusal to reduce reality to facts alone. Hope acknowledges what is without granting it the final word. Hope asks us to remain present when outcome and meaning remain unclear. Hope without attention turns into illusion. Attention without hope hardens into paralysis. Their interdependence makes life possible without simplification.
Change begins with how we see and perceive. Real change rarely begins with behaviour alone. As long as perception remains unchanged, our actions repeat themselves in different forms. Gustav Fechner understood transformation as a shift in inner perspective, not as an accumulation of interventions.
Fidelity is the forgotten word in all of this. Not fidelity to plans or goals, but fidelity to conscious attention. Gabriel Marcel viewed fidelity as a creative stance: remaining where it becomes uncomfortable. In the new year, fidelity offers no guarantee of success, but it does stand for not betraying deep meaning. Reread this.
Those who enter the new year with attention as promise and fidelity as method discover that the future isn’t a place to move toward, but a moral posture that confronts us daily, relentlessly and fruitfully. Those who pay attention will also read between the lines to understand what is being said, without explicit references to themes, events, political currents, or broader developments. And if not, these philosophical reflections may still offer the resolve and clarity needed to face 2026 with strength and responsibility.
